


In Asgard There are No Nicknames, Only Titles

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, M/M, Norse Myths & Legends, Team, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor doesn't understand the difference between titles and nicknames, which causes a major diplomatic incident between Midgard and Asgard when "The King of Hawks" mysteriously disappears out of Phil's bed. </p><p>Tony has a bad feeling about this.</p><p> </p><p>~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this chapter up a while ago and have been sitting on it. I don't expect it to be a long story, and it is genuinely, 100% NOT FINISHED or even half-written at this time. It's a WIP in the truest since, so if you hate that sort of thing, do not proceed! While I do have a good reputation for finishing stories and do not intend to abandon this, I just can't promise timely updates. 
> 
> This serves basically as stress relief as I work on longer/more intense fic. You have been warned.
> 
> This is more team!fic with relationships, it's not a romance story, just so you know.

No one would say Thor was stupid. He understood things differently sometimes, but once something was explained, he latched onto it and rode the idea like it was his bitch. He once walked into the common area, where Bruce and Tony were arguing over a holograph “writing board” covered in what might have been equations, or maybe stick figures. Thor took one look, snorted, erased half the board while Tony yelled at him, then wrote one small equation in place of what he had erased.

Tony actually started crying. 

But what nobody could seem to get across was the idea of a nickname. Thor figured out his phone in an hour, and was commenting on the political subtleties of a parliamentary democracy within days of visiting Britain, but he never could seem to grasp the fact that Clint Barton was “Hawkeye” because it just sort of described him, rather than because Clint had once done magic and was now something like the supreme ruler of hawks. He knew that Tony’s suit was just a suit, but because Tony was Iron Man, Thor assumed he had some kind of conscious control over the element. He was always asking Tony to make him small iron trinkets such as hooks or buttons or knives, and because Tony kind of loved Thor in a brotherly way he went down to his workshop and made them.

Natasha complained that this only confused the issue and kept asking Tony to stop humoring Thor. For her, it was annoying, because Thor honestly believed that Natasha was a shape shifting spider and not-so-subtly secretly warned the men not to mate with her. 

Although since _everyone_ honestly believed that Steve really was the captain of America, it was just too easy to let Thor have his delusions. 

But then one day, Clint disappeared. 

\------------

Tony had never seen Coulson look quite so freaked. Even when Loki was on the loose and the Avengers were just a gleam in Fury’s eye, Coulson had been bland like beige. Now his right eye was twitching and Tony found it disturbing.

“He’s not gone, he’s somewhere in the ducts. Remember this happened when he was avoiding the Easter Parade? JARVIS! Scan the building for Hawkeye the Boy Wonder.”

“He’s not here,” Coulson stated flatly.

They were standing in Bruce’s lab, because that was where Tony spent most of his free time, and Bruce was looking concerned and worried and Tony hated that as much as Coulson’s eye twitch.

“Okay, say he isn’t here,” Tony said, spreading his arms wide. “Maybe he ducked out to visit SHEILD. Did you check with Fury or Hill?”

Coulson gave him a look that plainly said, ‘I will murder you and everything you have ever loved.’ 

Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case turned out, JARVIS broke in. “Sorry, Sir, Agent Barton is not on the premises.”

The Easter Parade Incident was the reason JARVIS was instructed to say “not on the premises” instead of “not in the building” if he couldn’t find someone: because that was exactly the kind of sneaky bastards Tony had invited into his home.

He loved them so fucking much.

“Phil, you seem pretty convinced Clint isn’t here. Maybe start from the beginning?” Bruce asked politely, taking his glasses off and peering at Coulson with sincerity that could melt steel.

Coulson nodded, then gave them a very odd, somewhat rambling story about going to bed with Clint as usual and waking up alone. 

“You edited out the kinky sex part, didn’t you?” Tony nodded knowingly at Coulson, who actually blushed. 

“That is not germane to the circumstances. Clint is gone.”

It turned out that Coulson had, of course, run through his long list of where Clint might have gone and turned up empty handed before he ever came up to the lab. So, yeah, it was looking like they were doing this.

They assembled in the large briefing room that Tony had set aside for Avengers’ business, Natasha looking stressed while Coulson kept up his pinched-face worry. Even Steve looked concerned. Tony hated it when people around him were sad. That was what money was for, usually, but it wasn’t like he could go buy a new Clint. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Thor strode in—he always strode, because he was a Norse god and that was the “in” thing—and sat down. “What danger do we face today, Son of Coul?”

“Clint, Agent Barton, has gone missing,” Coulson said with his jaw tight.

Thor frowned. “No?”

Coulson frowned. “Yes?”

Thor shook his head. “I do not think so.”

Coulson nodded. “I do think so.”

“Wait, stop, please, you’re giving me a headache.” Tony waved a hand between them. “Thor, do you know where Barton is?”

Thor shook his head. “No, it is not for me to know the ways of the Hawks.” He leaned in closely. “They are very fierce, and they fly.”

“You fly!” Tony pointed at him.

Thor shook his head slowly and spoke to Tony as if talking to a young child. “Mjlonor flies, and carries me.” 

“Wait, Thor, are you saying…uh, are you saying that Barton is with a bunch of hawks?” Steve squinted at Thor, who nodded. 

Everyone started yelling, or at least Tony and Natasha did, until Coulson pulled a whistle out from somewhere and blew into it, sending a shrill blast of noise through the room. While Tony rubbed his ears, Coulson pointed at Thor.

“Explain.”

Thor shrugged. “The Hawks of Asgard seek word with Vedrfolnir who is their god, of course,” Thor spoke as if lecturing a children’s class. “But their king died eons ago, and they have been without representation ever since. They chose this way, as they prefer to fly free without regard to political alliances. As I say, they are very fierce. But as I am sure you know, Vedrfolnir will not speak to anyone but a king or a queen. Heimdall, seeing their difficulty, brought them The Hawkeye, Clint Barton, King of Migardian Hawks.” Thor nodded again, as if any of that crap made sense, while Coulson blinked at him repeatedly and Steve tilted his head like a confused puppy. 

Tony was tapping madly on his StarkPad. “Vedrfolnir, the hawk that sits between the eyes of the unnamed eagle who sits on top of the sacred tree of life, Eggdrazull.”

“Yggdrasil,” Thor corrected with a glare.

“Heimdall kidnapped Barton to be the hawk whisperer for a bunch of leaderless punks who want to chat up their god?” Tony liked to be thorough when examining new theories. 

“Yes!” Thor smiled. There was a long pause before he got up. “If that is all?”

“No!” Coulson snapped, figuratively and literally. He marched around the table and poked Thor in the chest with a finger. “Bring him back!”

Thor looked down at Clint’s finger in confusion. “I could not, even if I so desired. The Hawkeye is on a great journey to the otherworld, on official Hawk business to talk to their God.”

Steve grimaced. “You make it sound like he died.”

Thor actually rolled his fucking eyes at them. “Yes, of course. How does one expect to see Yggdrasil?”

Coulson went low and Natasha went high while Tony got the hell out of the way. By the time Steve found the whistle and broke their eardrums, the huge meeting table and four chairs were broken. Thor was still standing while Coulson and Natasha pretended they were, pulling themselves out of the rubble of the former conference room with as much dignity as they could, which Tony thought wasn’t much.

“Thor, Hawkeye being dead is not acceptable,” Steve said, his voice stern and reproving. Thor still looked confused.

“It is the only way. If Vedrfolnir so chooses, he may return The Hawkeye to Midgard alive. Such is of course the wish of all supplicants, and as a King surely The Hawkeye understood this.” 

Coulson glared. “Agent Barton is not King of the Hawks.”

Thor raised an eyebrow, and Tony was getting the idea that the Asgardian prince had been holding out on the smart-ass factor. Thor sighed. “I do not make your Midgardian laws, Son of Coul.”

“It’s just a nickname!” Natasha spat.

“So you keep saying, although I do not think that word means what you think it means.” 

Tony snorted. “No more _Princess Bride_ for you.”

“Shut up, Stark!” Coulson snapped.

Tony waved him off. “Thor, we need _The Hawkeye_ back. So dial up Asgard and we’ll go talk to the Hawks, get our boy, and be home in time for dinner.”

Everyone stared at him.

“Anyone have a better suggestion? No? Okay, lets get this ball rolling.”

Thor frowned. “The Hawks are notoriously difficult to negotiate with, and Heimdall is their protector. He chose their representative, and that choice was The Hawkeye, King of Midgardian Hawks. If you so wish to plead your case, he may ask any price in recompense, to bring The Hawkeye back against the wishes of the Hawks. He may also refuse you.” Thor shook his head sadly. “It is best to let Hawkeye complete his mission.”

Everyone looked angry, and there was something about Coulson’s posture that set Tony’s nerves on edge, but no one spoke. Thor looked at all of them with his puppy-dog eyes, and that was the final straw for Tony.

“You know what? Heimdall doesn’t get to make that call. I’m the Man of Iron, that’s the Queen of Black Widow Spiders, and he’s the Captain of the Great Realm of America. We’ve got Bruce the Berserker and the Renowned Son of the Coul and you’re the God of Thunder. We are the, the, Legendary Avengers of Midgard, and the Hawks have, uh, taketh one of our own! We demand Justice! With a capital J!” Tony rolled his shoulders because he sounded as asinine as Thor on a bender but it was hardly the first time in his life he had to power through a really stupid idea. 

Everyone kept staring, which didn’t help.

Thor, though, gave Tony a long, thoughtful look. “The matter had not been presented to me in such a manner before. Indeed, as a member of our council, The Hawkeye should not be taken without our consult. Heimdall was wrong to do so, but I do not believe he understood the matter as you have explained it. Yes, you are right, Stark, God of Iron!” He suddenly looked really sheepish. “I never did well in diplomatic studies. Mother despaired.”

Natasha snapped her mouth shut from where it had been hanging open. “So we’re getting him back now?”

Thor shrugged. “We present our case to the All Father, and the Hawks."

Tony sat down with a thud into only remaining unbroken chair. "Great. We're on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's not dreaming; he's pretty sure there would be more maple syrup involved if he was.

Clint blinked up at the blue, blue sky above him. He was nestled in a downy bed that smelled like feathers and snakes, something Clint kind of considered familiar from his circus days, but given the situation was hardly comforting. "This is a suck-ass dream." He rolled over to his side, his body feeling languid and sated, hoping to find Phil, a bottle of maple syrup and a stack of pancakes. He was not ashamed. 

Instead he scrambled backwards until something like tree branches poked his back, stopping him. "Niiiiice birdy. Chirp? Chirp?" 

The three young hawks peered at him. At least Clint thought they were young; it was hard to tell past the fact that each one of them was as big as he was. They just had that downy look to them.

"Chirp?" He tried again. Maybe if they thought he was one of them, they wouldn't eat him. He did not want to end a bad dream being eaten by his namesake, that would just be humiliating. 

The hawks fussed at each other for a moment then returned to staring at him. Clint tried to lean casual and look unappetizing. 

"You are the King?"

"He is small for a king."

"How does he fly?"

"We could throw him out of the nest and find out!"

"No throwing me out of the nest! I just got here!" Clint stopped. "Oh hey, you talk."

"So do you."

"Shouldn't we?"

"He is the King! We should be quiet."

Clint broke in before the comedy routine picked up steam. "Can you tell me if I'm dreaming? Because this kind of looks like a dream."

One of the hawks glanced around, taking in everything for a quiet moment, then turned its gaze back on Clint. "Do you feel like you are dreaming?"

Clint shifted on his feet, feeling good but not weightless. "Uh, no. I don't." 

"Then you are awake." 

The other two nodded solemnly.

"So, not dreaming?"

All three shook their heads. 

"But I _am_ naked, right?" Clint refused to look down and check, but he was pretty sure.

One of the hawklets nodded. "You have no feathers."

"You can wear some of ours!" One flapped its wings.

"We were molting." The third said, looking somewhat sadly forlorn about it. 

One of them peered at Clint. "Are you molting?" 

They all crowded in and bobbed up and down, checking him out. Clint absolutely refused to cover his junk with his hands like a newbie. Not that his junk was all that visible, given that it was in full retreat from the threat of three hungry looking human-sized hawks getting a little too up close and personal. 

Clint stood up straight. "I'm not molting!"

"Oh." They chorused, surprised and confused about it. 

"Of course not. You can't molt if you are dead."

"Yes, but perhaps he molted before he died."

"We did!"

Clint slashed his hands through the air. "I'm not dead."

They stared at him.

"Not. Dead." 

More staring.

"Me? Alive. See?" He spread his arms out. 

"We are taking you to Vedrfolnir. Through the _spirit world_." One of them said, motioning at the blue, blue sky outside of the humongous nest. 

"Fine. Great. That's just great, but okay? I'm not dead."

"Why not? We're dead. You must be dead too."

Clint blinked back at them. "I'm naked in a giant hawk's nest. This is not the afterlife."

They nodded in eerie synchronicity. 

"No, it's not." Clint was pretty firm on that point, but the hawklets just kept nodding. 

"Guys, we're not dead. Look around."

One of them shrugged, which was odd when done with predator wings. "We're your escort, King Hawkeye of the Migardian Hawks. We are all dead. Such is the way of it."

The smallest one—Clint was starting to be able to tell them apart—bounced on its talons. "We were chosen! Mother would take you but she died fighting a dreki, in order to protect us. But she lost and we were eaten and she went to Valhalla so we are taking you!"

"It was most wretched to be eaten. I want to see Vedrfolnir and complain." The darkest one, whose feathers were nearly tinged black, bristled. 

The other two gasped, which sounded more like squawking to Clint. "Nooooo! No!" They ganged up on him and started beating their wings at each other, which kind of reminded Clint of the childish disagreements he used to have with Barney, back before things turned sour between them. Except that Clint would be collateral damage if he got hit, because the wing span on even the smallest hawklet was eight feet if it was an inch. He crouched down to think about what was going on. 

What stuck out in his mind was that they had called him King Hawkeye of the Midgardian Hawks. There was only one person who could have come up with that title. 

Clint was going to kill Thor, if he ever got back to Avengers Tower alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony figures it's going to end badly, because he's had enough one night stands to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt the mostly non-existent plot to bring you gratuitous culture clashing. You're welcome.

Tony thought it was rather unfair that "Court Dress" meant that everyone had to wear their gear, except Bruce, who didn't have gear, just a huge green rage monster. The incredibly long ceremony introducing the Legendary Avengers of Midgard to Their Most Majestic Royalty, King Odin and Queen Frigga, was formal and slow and boring which made it identical to every single diplomatic function Tony had ever slept through on Earth. But while the rest of them were all dolled up in their uniforms and weaponry, Bruce got to slouch around in linen slacks and a button down with the sleeves rolled up because according to Thor, it was customary to let berserkers be as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. (Even Captain America couldn't argue with that logic, although Bruce visibly cringed every time the word "berserker" was used…which was a lot.)

Tony at least had the visor down, so he put himself on mute and worked on some projects with the mobile app version of JARVIS (not as powerful, but a lot more portable) until everything came to a loud banging end, when Odin stood up and some kind of highly weaponized marching drum corps stomped down the center of the hall. Everything broke up randomly after that, so Tony took off his helmet, figuring it was social hour. He needed a drink or three. 

Steve stopped him before he got halfway to what Tony hoped was the bar. "Would you look at that?" Steve motioned subtly toward where Bruce was being politely mobbed by amazingly beautiful, tall, and well-armed Asgardians. He looked like a confused Hobbit holding court in Rivendell. 

"Huh. I'll be damned." Tony stared. 

"Oh, thank you, yes, thank you – another one? Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much." Bruce clutched at yet another bouquet of daisies, the pile in his arms overflowing as members of the Court lined up in front of him.

"He really doesn't have a clue, does he?" Tony said, standing well back from the scene with Steve. Thor strolled up next to them carrying a large stein of mead which Tony eyed longingly. 

"I can't see how not," Steve answered in confusion.

"Indeed, surely he understands the meaning of the gift?" Thor waved his stein at the crowd.

Tony and Steve turned to Thor as one. "The gift?" Tony asked for both of them. 

"Daisies? The sacred flower of Freyja, the goddess of love, fertility, and war?"

"Oh dear god. No, he really doesn't." Tony covered his eyes. 

"Then what do you and the Captain refer to?" Thor looked back over at where Bruce was slowly being buried by daisies. 

"I was just talking about how all the dames, er, fine ladies of the court seem to be making eyes at him...and a few of the guys too." Steve squinted in that way he had which meant he was having a hard time being diplomatic. Tony was very used to that look, he could spot it at fifty paces. 

"As it should be! He is, after all, a berserker." Thor smiled.

"Ah, big guy, usually that's not such a good thing, back on Midgard." Tony tried to explain while Steve squinted harder. 

Thor gave them his best raised eyebrow. "Truly?"

"Girls don't go for that. No." 

"That explains so much of Doctor Banner's sadness. How unfortunate to be a berserker with no one to fuck." Thor looked heartbroken.

Steve swallowed his tongue and Tony slapped him on his back a few times. After a moment, Steve waved him off with his shield, still red-faced, although it looked like he was trying to choose between mortal embarrassment and hysterical laughter. 

Tony turned to Thor again. "What you're saying here is that Bruce is quite a catch? In Asgard?"

Thor processed the comment for a moment. "If you mean he is desirable, you would be correct. I cannot think of any true warrior who would not cherish a chance to wrestle with Doctor Banner's berserker soul." Thor's expression turned unhappy. "His pacifying of Loki has entered into legend."

They all stared at Bruce who was dripping flowers while trying to accept more, kindly thanking everyone and probably breaking hearts like a player. Tony was so proud.

Bruce gave him a pathetic, confused look which Tony recognized as a clear plea for help and chose to ignore. Bruce was just going to have to step up his game.

"Is anyone going to be mortally offended if he turns them down?" Tony figured it was best to face the problem head on. As in, getting a head start the hell away from the place if necessary, something Tony knew a little bit about. 

Thor looked confused. "No. They are only signaling their interest in sharing his bed."

Steve turned red again. "Ah, uh…Thor, isn't that your mother? Her Majesty?" He pointed to where Frigga regally cut the whole line and handed a beautifully braided wreath of daisies to a confounded Bruce Banner. 

"Mother has a weakness for berserkers. Her last male consort was a berserker; I remember him well, as he often smashed me into walls when I was a foolish young boy." Thor nodded fondly. 

Frigga leaned down and placed a delicate kiss on Bruce's lips, then whispered in his ear. Bruce's eyes went wide. 

Thor sighed dramatically. "Ah, the sweet first blush of love! I suppose we shall not see them until morning." He chuckled. 

"Uh, Captain—" Tony poked Steve in the arm as Frigga towed Bruce out of the room, trailing flowers. Steve looked too stunned to move. 

Thor patted Tony's shoulder. "Have no fear, Stark. The Hulk is far too strong for Mother to break."

"That wasn't…it's not…you know what? All power too him." Tony turned to where Bruce was stumbling out of the door behind Frigga with a slightly panicked look on his face. "Go get 'em, tiger!" Tony cheered with a wave. 

The magnificent hall rumbled with noise as the whole Court of Asgard broke out into roaring cries of "Gogettam, T'gr!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly morbid detour for the sake of the sort-of plot. Sorry.

Coulson had been pretty patient through the preliminaries, standing around looking blah in his suit during all the formal introductions and ceremonies. There was a permanent pinch around his eyes that betrayed his stress, but anyone who wasn't used to causing that pinch to appear wouldn't notice it. 

Tony noticed it, a lot.

There wasn't much for them to do, though, until King Odin decided to move things past the formalities. Coulson lurked around the edges of the team as they went through a dozen "nice to meet you, here have a whole alien boar-like-lizard for dinner" ceremonies. Tony and Steve were constantly on alert, prepared to deal with the fallout when (not if) Coulson finally broke and started shooting people. 

What no one was prepared for, though, was to for the opening round of negotiations to be held in Barton's mausoleum. 

"Oh. Oh SHIT." Tony stalled inside the door so fast that Steve walked straight into his back, sending them both to the ground. Behind them, Natasha actually gasped out loud as she got a view of the room, due to Steve and Tony kicking at each other on the floor as they tried to stand up. Odin and Thor turned to look at them in confusion. 

"No!" Natasha shouted as she spun, throwing both hands out to slam into Coulson's chest. The impact sent him flying backwards right into Bruce, who, despite being laid pretty spectacularly every night (according to the court gossip, which Tony followed religiously because the Queen of Asgard fucking a berserker was the _least_ perverted item on the menu) was not quite relaxed enough to serve as a floor mat for Coulson to land on without getting pissed off. 

"What the hell?" Bruce yelled, his voice growly and his skin tinted green. He picked up Coulson like a naughty puppy and threw him back at Natasha, who ducked. 

Having just found their feet again, Steve and Tony went down like bowling pins as Coulson slammed into them with his own shout of surprise. The three of them rolled forward into the impact, each trained enough not to get broken, but it still put them halfway into the room at Odin's feet. 

And at the bottom of the steps leading up to where Clint Barton's body was laid out in state, pale and cold in death. 

"God damn it," Steve snarled, which was more blasphemy than he usually put into a month. 

Coulson stood up slowly, his eyes on Barton's corpse, which was dressed in ridiculous Asgardian armor meant to look like bird feathers made out of precious metals, layered in scales down his arms and legs. The breast plate was incrusted with jewels, mostly amber and topaz and diamonds, if Tony was any judge. The copper-colored helmet was heavily worked with feather designs and it curved out over Clint's bloodless face into a sharp, lethal looking beak. The body rested in a shallow nest of elegantly braided vines and branches, decorated with elaborate feather work. It was a breathtakingly beautiful arrangement, fit for a king, and Tony actually felt guilty about taking a picture of it for his own funeral plans. 

"King Odin, I demand to know how Barton, The Hawkeye of Midgard, was killed." Steve spoke slowly and precisely, and Tony had to hand it to him, he could take on the Asgardians mano-a-mano when it came to intimidation techniques. 

Odin nodded at the request as if it were perfectly reasonable. "There was no pain. It was not the death of a warrior in battle, but it could not be so, or his soul would have been sent to Valhalla."

"What. Happened." Steve asked through gritted teeth. Tony cast a look at where Coulson was standing, blanched white and furious, staring at Barton's body. 

Thor stepped forward. "His soul was stripped from his body as he crossed between realms. Heimdall has himself informed me that this was done by Hel, as a favor to him. We are fortunate that one so well versed in such magic did this."

Incredulously, Thor actually did look relieved by that. 

Tony shook his head. "So we need this Hel guy to put Clint, uh, The Glorious Hawkeye, back where he belongs? What's his number? He local? Let's get started."

"Hel is my niece. Like her father, she is something of trickster. I would not trust her to do as you request." Thor suddenly looked very tired. 

Coulson's head turned slowly and carefully towards the Asgardians. Tony braced for impact.

"Are you telling me that Loki's daughter killed my husband?" 

Tony leaned over to Steve and whispered. "Shit just got real."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Frankie_Felony](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_felony/profile) for ongoing assistance with Asgardian lore and names. ♥

Victory hopped after the king as he crawled head-first over the edge of their nest, acting more like a wingless bat than a hawk. She looked at her brothers skeptically. Sparkles and Warrior shrugged in unison, their wings flapping a little. Victory spread her wings and leaned out to track the king's progress.

"What the Hel?" The king shouted. "Where is the fucking tree?"

"What tree?" 

"Nests are supposed to be in a tree!" He yelled up at her as he flipped right side up and started a retreat back up the edge. "This thing is just floating in the air! What the fuck!"

Warrior, the largest and most obnoxious of Victory's brothers, huffed. "He cannot be a king, not if he's this stupid."

"Shhhh!" Sparkles hissed and slapped at Warrior with one wing. "Shhh!"

"There is no tree!" The king repeated, standing up when he was properly back in the nest, his bizarre genitalia swinging free. It was a little mesmerizing, and Victory tried not to think of plump mice. 

"This is only a temporary nest. It will cease to exist when we don't need it anymore." Victory nudged at him with her beak, trying to be supportive. The king grabbed at his genitals, which he tended to do a lot. Victory was flattered but king or not, he was a little too small for her. 

"I really hate magic. Okay, fine, so tell me how we're getting out of here." 

"Uh. Fly?" Sparkles offered. Victory and Warrior leaned in toward the king, hoping he'd give the signal. 

"I don't have wings." The king held his arms out. It was a genuine problem, and fairly odd, but the king was from Midgard so Victory did not think it was her place to comment. 

"You don't look like a hawk," Warrior said for all of them.

"I'm not a fucking hawk! I'm _Hawkeye_!"

"Perhaps hawks don't have kings in Midgard? Maybe they just have Eyes?" Sparkles pondered, because he might have been the smallest of them but Victory knew he was really the smartest. 

"It's a god damn _NICKNAME_!" The king flapped his arms, but he didn't get any leverage out of it. 

"I guess." Warrior stared at the king. 

It made sense to Victory, who figured if their king was the Midgardian version of Heimdall, then at least he was royalty enough to count. 

"Is that why I'm here? Because someone thought I was the king of hawks?"

"Of Midgard hawks, yes!" Sparkles flapped excitedly. "There is no king or queen of Asgardian hawks, not for thousands of years. I think we're just being stubborn."

Warrior grumbled something about insect-eating mouse-brained birds. Victory shoved at him with her foot. 

"Vedrfolnir is our god, and only a royalty can speak to him directly," Sparkles continued, lost in his deep flying thoughts. 

"You honestly think I'm _royalty_? Man you guys are so very screwed." 

Sparkles huffed up, his feathers bristling. "If you were not royalty Heimdall would not have sent you to us." 

"Uh huh. So we go talk to this Verfollynor—"

"Vedrfolnir!" Victory and her brothers yelled together. 

The king backed up. "Whoa, okay. Verdfolneer."

Sparkles clucked like a chicken and Warrior shoved at him in embarrassment. Victory hopped forward a little, figuring it was time to pick their battles, and the fact that Midgardians clearly did not know AllSpeak was not one of them. "Yes, we go and you talk to him."

"And then I go home?"

She exchanged looks with her brothers. "I don't know."

The king sighed heavily and cast his eyes up to the sky, finally looking a little like a bird of prey, despite his distracting genitals. It eased Victory's heart. 

"Fine. We go talk with the hawk god. Naked. I can't believe I just said that. Whatever. Look, how do we get out of the floating magical nest?" He pointed out at the sky. 

Sparkles's eyes went comically wide and Warrior shoved his face under a wing. 

Victory hunched down a little, trying to meet him eye to eye. "Your Majesty, we need to fly to Yggdrasil. You will have to ride one of us."

"Oh no!" Warrior squawked, because it was pretty clear who was big and strong enough to carry the king any great distance. 

"What he said! No!" The king folded his puny arms up against himself as he yelled at them. "Absolutely not!" 

He squawked enough to be a hawk, Victory thought sourly. She clawed at the nest viciously until everyone shut up. _Boys._

"We're leaving now!" She batted at them with her wings until Sparkles got sick of it and launched himself out of the nest, and the king (honored be his name, whatever it was) was forced to jump on Warrior's back or get knocked clear out of the nest. 

"Hey! You kids got names?" The king yelled as they finally headed out, shifting around on Warrior's back with a grimace. 

"Victory, Sparkles, and Warrior!" She answered. 

"Sigurder, Sindari, and Vader! Got it!" 

Victory bobbed at the garbled reply, wondering if maybe Heimdall couldn't have at least picked a more fitting king for them. It was a slightly blasphemous thought and she was sure Heimdall was going to hold it against her, but she rebelliously refused to apologize. 

"My name is From a Hill in Barton!"

Without a doubt, Victory was not going to apologize. 

Towards the East, Yggdrasil's soul thrummed like a steady heartbeat, leading them to Vedrfolnir. Victory really hoped that the king would know what he was supposed to ask when they got there, and would forego mentioning his terrible, terrible name. That's what titles were for, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name confusion explanation:
> 
> Clinton: on a hill  
> Barton: place name
> 
> Sigurdr: Victory  
> Sindri: Sparkling  
> Vidarr: Warrior
> 
> Gods and sacred objects/beings don't really have meanings behind their names, as their names ARE their meaning, so are not given translations. I think Victory was expecting to hear something a little more profound for Clint's name!


	6. Chapter 6

"Wow, pretty sure this is bad idea. And when I say that, you know it is a seriously fucked up idea." Tony leaned against one of the outlandishly huge and, to Tony's never-ending frustration, pointless columns located in Thor's palatial quarters. Architecture just was not supposed to work that way, and it annoyed him. 

Thor shrugged, gnawing on a leg of roast beast (Tony had given up on trying to differentiate species of roasted animal, it was as pointless as trying to figure out how far up the columns actually went. How did they support their own weight?).

"Tony!" Steve snapped, pulling Tony's attention back down on the ground. "We all agree, but that's the stipulation. Coulson has to meet Heimdall on the battlefield before he can make a request like this."

"'Tis tradition," Thor intoned heavily, then started gnawing again. The man was a roast-beast eating machine. 

"'Tis a good way to make sure no one is left to make requests, you mean. Have you met that guy? He's bigger than you! And no offense, but he's got better armor plating too." 

"Of course he wears better armor. I simply protect the realm of Asgard -- and Midgard, on occasion -- while Heimdall guards all of time." Thor dipped his hands in a bowl to clean them while everyone stared at him.

Tony stepped towards him. "By 'all of time' you mean…?"

Thor gave him one of those infuriating looks that said "oh you puny humans and your pathetic sciences" before answering. "Time."

"Riiiiight." Tony turned to where Coulson was being hammered, literally, into a suit of armor. "Try not to seriously fuck up the guy guarding all of time."

"Stark, I'll be lucky to walk in a straight line wearing this get-up. I'm very much afraid that Heimdall will be very, very safe during this contest."

"You find the armor restricting?" Thor walked over to where two master smiths -- one of metal, one of leather -- were slowly encasing Coulson alive. 

The leathersmith, an extremely tiny and scary woman who was 4000 years old if she was a day, frowned. "If the Hawk's Consort were, perhaps, _bigger_ I would not have to use such thick underplates."

"Please call me Phil," Coulson said for the 478th time. 

The leathersmith grumbled again, obviously personally offended by the minute stature of Midgardian consorts and unwilling to accept that they had first names. Tony kind of wanted to sic Pepper on her. Next time, definitely, he made a note. After all, _leather_. Could be fun. 

Steve sighed and inspected Coulson himself. "Thor, I don't get it. Everyone knows that Phil can't beat Heimdall. I'd be a better match. Can't I be, I don't know, the Hawk's knight or something?"

"Protecting my honor, Captain?" Coulson almost smiled, which was the closest he had gotten to any emotion other than "raging homicidal fury" since they had left Clint's mausoleum. 

"My team's safety is my primary concern, and my primary role. No offense, Phil, but I can take a hit better than you can. Even with all of…that." Steve cringed as he waved a hand up and down, indicating the intricately decorated armor what was going up around Coulson like a gold-plated, leather-lined steel cage. 

"No, it must be the requestor who makes the challenge and meets Heimdall on the field." Thor shook his head.

"Coulson's gonna get broken, do you realize that?" Tony said. Steve grimaced and Natasha continued to just look pissed off but everyone knew he was right. He usually was, no matter their personal feelings about it. 

"Small," the leathersmith grumbled again, pounding her little hammer against a joint while Coulson grimaced. The metalsmith, a stocky man who looked more like Santa Claus than a fierce Asgardian craftsman, nodded but never said a word. 

"Probably." Thor sighed. "My friends, this is just the first step. They must meet in challenge. Then, if all goes well—"

"If Coulson _survives_ ," Tony hissed, almost but not quite avoiding the small kick Natasha sent his way. 

"If all goes well," Thor repeated sternly, "Then Heimdall will demand tribute, and then assign our quest."

"Why do I get the feeling being a billionaire isn't going to help much with this tribute?" Tony sighed.

"What kind of quest?" Coulson asked, his voice loud through the hall. Seriously, that much textured stone and lush tapestries should not have carried an echo at all, and Tony wrinkled his nose in disapproval. Did sound travel the same in Asgard? Were they even talking, or what? He was busy knocking on one of the annoying maybe-stone-who-the-fuck-knows columns when Steve tapped his shoulder. 

"This is important," Steve pointed at where Thor was talking at Coulson. 

"—a sign of your devotion and obedience to your master and king."

"What the fuck?" Coulson looked appalled and tried to shuffle backwards, only to get a hard zing on the elbow from the leathersmith's nasty little hammer. 

"What?" Tony looked up at Steve.

"It's the quest part. We have to go on a quest to retrieve a symbol of, uh, Phil's love for Clint."

"Phil's obedience and devotion, you mean?" Tony grinned.

"You're next after Heimdall, Stark," Coulson snarled at him.

"Come and catch me, metal man. Oh wait, that's your line," Tony pointed at Thor. 

"This is absurd. He can barely move." Natasha stalked over and both the metal-smith and the leather-smith scrambled to get out of her way. Coulson held very still while she poked at the joints and tested the leather. She eventually turned towards Thor, opening her mouth to speak, before whipping around with a high kick to Coulson's chest. It was like watching a cow tipping, Tony mused in horror, as Coulson toppled onto his back with a loud clang and flailed his arms and legs like a flipped turtle. 

"Wow." Tony clapped. 

"Natasha," Steve sighed, rubbing his face. 

Natasha calmly turned back to Thor, who was looking like he wanted to laugh. "Thor, is wearing a suit of armor required?"

Thor thought for a moment. "No, but it is highly recommended. Heimdall was one of my tutors in hand to hand combat, he is without mercy in battle."

"But it's not _required_?" She asked again.

"No."

"Natasha?" Coulson asked from where he was stuck to the floor as if it was magnetized. 

"You're not wearing armor. You can move faster without it, and you're almost as good at dirty fighting as I am. We brought clothes for Clint, including his tac suit. It will fit you." She knelt down beside Coulson and tapped the metal encasing him.

Thor shook his head. "I do not think—"

"No no no! This is a great idea!" Tony put his hands out to stop the debate. "He's Midgardian. He needs to wear Midgardian armor and fight in Midgardian style." 

"We have a style?" Steve asked, amusement lighting up his face.

"We have lots of style, witness," He pointed at himself. "And lots of styles, fighting styles out the ass, but that's not the point. The point is Coulson doesn't have to do this Asgardian style."

"This is true. All realms have the right to adhere to their own cultural standards." Thor shrugged. "We do try to encourage acceptance of diversity." 

"That's the social justice warrior we know and love!" Tony clapped Thor on the back. 

The call to assemble for the challenge come for a goat's horn trumpet, if goats were thirty feet tall and weighed 60 tons. It was heavily decorated with gold filigree and sat precariously perched on a narrow rest that looked like bone or ivory, and Tony was getting really pissed off with Asgardian physics because there was no way the material of that perch could support the weight of the horn. Steve dragged him away before Tony even got to touch the thing. 

The epic battle that Tony was already privately calling "Coulson's Doomed, Everyone Go Home" took place in an indoor sports arena with seating around the edges and ledges for plates of food and tankards of mead. The floor of the arena was big enough for a soccer pitch but covered in sand. "If we could have solved this with a trip to Medieval Times, I would have just flown us to Kissimmee in the first place," Tony grumbled as they took their places in what he had to assume was the "Challenger's Supporters" section, which was mostly empty except for Avengers, Thor, Sif, and the leathe-rsmith. Tony was kind of touched by that last one. 

"I don't know what you are talking about. Be quiet." Steve shoved him down into his seat just as someone big and burly and (surprise, surprise) heavily armed announced the start of proceedings. 

Heimdall was one majestic motherfucker, and took to the arena like a professional athlete, running up and down in his full armor to the cheers of the crowd. "Jesus fucking Christ, Coulson is so gonna die."

" _Blaspheme_ ," Steve hissed. He cussed with the best of them but always got his panties twisted when it came the great JC. 

"That wasn't blasphemy, that was prayer." Tony took a swig of his mead. 

"He's got a chance." Steve leaned in closely, his voice low. "And I told Bruce to hulk out if things looked dicey." 

Tony nodded. "Good plan. Dishonor before death, any day." 

Phil walked out, looking meek and incredibly small in his basic black field uniform, which was no more than BDUs, knee pads, a longsleeve black shirt and a tac vest. He did not have any guns on him, but there were a lot of knives strapped to his body. A _lot_ of knives. 

"Your work?" Tony leaned out to look at Natasha. 

She nodded but never looked away from Coulson. "And the leathersmith."

Tony turned and raised his tankard at the old bat, who solemnly raised hers in return then chugged the whole fucking thing. Tony eyed his own warily, because that much high-octane mead all at once would likely cause instant liver failure. He would know. 

As the two contestants came to stand together in the middle of the field, Phil held out his right hand for a shake. Heimdall looked at him, then at his hand, then held out his own hand, mimicking the move perfectly but not actually taking Phil's hand. Phil sighed heavily then clasped his hand into Heimdall's and gave it a firm shake before releasing it. Heimdall looked like he was trying not to laugh from the three feet or so of height advantage he had on Coulson.

"Is that customary for opponents?" Sif asked. 

"Yes," Steve replied when it became clear no one else would. 

"Such a gentle, effeminate tradition. You are a people of delicate mores, unbowed by crass showmanship." She looked really pleased by this while Steve looked confused and Tony made a note to tell Pepper that in Asgard, shaking hands was ladies thing, or something more gender neutral, he'd figure out the right words later. 

"Is it a display of your feminine spirit before being taken by the heat of battle?" Thor asked, turning to look up at Steve, who continued to look confused.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Tony nodded. Bruce shoved his face in a tankard trying not to laugh, and it was probably a bad idea to get the berserker drunk but Tony figured that was the least of their problems. 

King Odin stood up, clapped for silence, then promptly sat down and motioned at his wife. Frigga stood in turn and spread her arms out. 

"Today the consort of the King of the Midgardian Hawks comes to challenge Heimdall for the right to make a claim on his beloved's spirit. This man, Phil, Son of Coul, appears before us dressed in the, ah, hmmm, battle armor? Battle _gear_ of his people." She frowned at the tiny figure in black standing in front of her. "He must survive the onslaught of Heimdall's mighty fury. Should he make it to the end of the timed challenge without grievous harm, he will have earned the right to present himself to Heimdall and the Court as a supplicant." 

Phil raised his hand, as if they were in class. Frigga stared at him in astonishment for a moment before responding. "Yes?" 

"I don't have to kill him? I just have to not get hurt?"

The whole place erupted in laughter and Frigga covered her mouth. 

"Well shit if we had known that earlier!" Tony bitched and threw his fork at Thor, who caught it with a smile. 

"I assumed you understood the rules. My mistake."

Steve grumbled but Natasha looked pleased. 

"No, Consort of Hawkeye, Son of Coul. You must only survive the attack." Frigga grinned at him, transformed in that moment into a feral, brutal goddess of war. 

"I take it back, this does not make me feel better about anything," Tony said. 

There was another bleat of the over-sized horn and suddenly it was _on_ , Heimdall swinging his mace and nearly braining Coulson on the first move. 

"Shit!" Steve yelped and scooted onto the edge of his seat. Bruce slowly lowered his tankard and glared at the contestants, obviously just holding the Other Guy back. 

But Coulson was a hell of a lot more mobile and flexible than Tony would have ever guessed, based on his business suits. Which was good, because Heimdall, weighted down with armor and size, still met him at every zig and zag. Coulson sprinted like a rabbit around the field, jumping _over_ mace swings and barely missing Heimdall's heavy fist. 

"How long does this go on?" Tony asked Thor, absolutely not chewing on the edge of his tankard. 

"Usually? Three days." Thor took a swig of his mead while the other Avengers around him stilled with quiet dread. "But, Mother shortened the contest given the fragile nature of Midgardian constitutions. Did she settle on three hours?" He looked at Sif, who shook her head.

"No, six." 

"Oh my God." Steve slowly collapsed in his seat, defeat written all over him. "Oh, my dear God."

"He can do it." Natasha sat up straight in her chair, looking more determined than convinced.

"I'm not sure I can." Tony raised his tankard to get a refill. 

The hours ticked by slowly despite the heated battle going on before them. There was a break every hour for refreshments, and by hour three Phil was standing at the refreshment table wavering a little while he chugged a large glass of water. 

"Heimdall is making this quite a challenge. I feel he is more interested in testing Coul-son's mettle than extracting defeat," Thor said thoughtfully halfway through hour four. 

"What happens if Coulson loses?"

"Traditionally it will only end when it times out or Heimdall lands a killing blow, but it is clear that is not his intent."

"You sure?" Tony asked, trying to balance on his seat. He had lost count of the times his tankard had been refilled.

"Pretty sure," Thor nodded. Even Steve did not look very convinced by that.

Hour six saw Coulson winding down like an old clock. His movements were sluggish and he was drenched in sweat. Heimdall had toyed with him more than actually confronted him, and Tony had seen the SHIELD agent pull out every trick in the book including some gravity defying parkour moves around the arena's wall, but the end was coming up fast. Heimdall did not even look winded. 

"I have a bad feeling about this," Bruce said, leaning heavily on Tony because he had actually managed to keep pace with Tony's mead drinking, which at almost six hours in was fairly respectable. Around them the Asgardians were still drinking and eating merrily, but the Avengers realized that it was finally coming down to the line where Coulson might actually get himself killed. 

Coulson slogged forward, a knife in each hand. He had lost most of the ones he started out and was down to two short, curved blades. He had also lost his tac vest (stripped it off during the break at hour four), his knee pads (hour two) and his shirt (a close call sometime in hour five). He was balanced on his feet but just barely, and Heimdall was circling him, swinging his mace. 

"SERPENTINE!" Tony yelled out, the compulsion out of nowhere. Bruce, of course, was the only one who laughed, although Coulson clearly heard him because he cracked a smile. The next flurry of battle was shockingly fast, despite Coulson's evident exhaustion, but he did actually do a serpentine move which had Tony cackling with laughter. Coulson managed to turn Heimdall around just quickly enough to roll between his legs and kick out a knee. Heimdall went down onto his knee and slammed his mace into the ground where Coulson had been, but threw one arm back and hit Coulson directly in the chest with a meaty fist that sent him flying through the air, landing face down in the sand. 

The great goat horn bleated and the whole place fell silent.

It was a long, agonizing moment as Heimdall stood up and slowly turned around to face Coulson, who hadn't moved. Tony was holding his breath, or trying to, while Steve and Natasha were both squirming in their seats, clearly holding themselves back from leaping into the arena.

Phil twitched, then slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. After a moment, he crawled up on wobbly legs to stand, still clutching one of his knives in his hand. He was sweaty and dirty and covered in sand, and there were a number of scratches bleeding freely from all the close calls. He stood, dazed and possibly confused, waiting for Heimdall to finish him off.

Person by person a loud thumping started to fill the hall as people stomped their feet and slammed their tankards down, a slow roar blooming through the crowd and turning into a full-throated cheer as it become clear that Coulson had, indeed, survived. 

Tony jumped up shouting, because if it was wrong to yell like a maniac in a proto-Viking hall of the almost-gods of Asgard while waving around a tankard truck-full of mead, then Tony didn't want to be right. He turned and slapped Steve's shoulder. "Coulson LIVES!"

Bruce finally collapsed in hysterical laughter-maybe-stress-crying while Natasha grabbed the old leather-smith in a crushing hug. Clapping and more stomping accompanied Tony's cheer, and the hall filled with the sound of hundreds of Asgardians yelling "Coul-son LIVES!" over and over. 

Coulson himself slumped down onto his knees, saluted Heimdall and then fell over. Tony figured that was about as good as could be expected, so in the best of Midgardian traditions dumped his tankard of mead on Steve's head.


End file.
